Human Tornado
by RockerRoger
Summary: RENTfic. A songfic surrounding Mark and Maureen's relationship, set to Human Tornado by Anthony Rapp.


Author's Note and Disclaimer: Yep, this is my attempt at a songfic. The lyrics woven in here are from Anthony Rapp's song "Human Tornado." Buy his "Look Around" CD and go listen to it! XD As always, RENT and all its character belong to the late, great Jonathan Larson.

Human Tornado

I remember the night I met Maureen Johnson--Well, of course, I remember meeting Maureen. It was only a month ago that we'd broken up. Only 30 days. Only 720 hours. Only 43,200 seconds. It's funny, too, because before I met her, I'd shuffle around the apartment thinking about how Roger wouldn't leave. I'd think about how he hadn't stepped foot outside our industrial loft in seven months. If you're counting with me, that's 210 days, or 5,040 hours, or 302,400 seconds. All that time I spent with Roger.

The smell of death still hung in the air and sat on your chest. And, sometimes, it wasn't death at all. It was April's scent of cheap body wash that she got on sale at Target. When it was her body wash, it made me want to vomit more than when it reeked of death, or suicide. It had already driven Benny out of the apartment for most of the day.

You could understand why I had to bolt that night. Roger would sit in the middle of the apartment and play "Musetta's Waltz" over and over. The last thing he and April had done before… "The accident," was go see Puccini's opera La Boheme at the Lincoln Center. Collins had just gone to pitch his "Actual Reality" theory at MIT. He'd left us $100 that he scammed in one of those Central Park games where you have to find the red rubber ball under the three Dixie cups. Roger and April took $20 and bought two of those standing "seats" in the back of the opera house. I remember, when they came home to the loft, she had jokingly complained that her legs had gone numb and that the opera singers all looked like ants, anyway. Roger kept humming "Musetta's Waltz," and he tabbed it for his guitar the same evening.

_Before you know it, there she is,  
Running up on you like a fast gin fizz._

The night I met Maureen, Roger still wasn't speaking much. Supposedly, everyone has 7 steps of mourning. Roger has three: becoming a recluse, communicating in grunts, and ignoring you. 

            "I'm going out for a little while," I told him. Explaining my excursion was probably to ease my nerves, as he just snorted in response. "I think, uh, I'm going to post up some of Collins's anti-consumerist stickers around bus stops. Don't you think he'd like that?" Roger took a lone fork off the table he was perched on and started to scratch his name into the wood. "Me, too. I'm going to take my camera and try to get some reaction shots." Roger raked a square-looking letter "O" into the table. 

_Nothing's gonna stop this little girl,_

_From tearing up the whole great ass-kicking world._

            As far as posting up Collins's anti-consumerist stickers around bus stops, well, yeah… I guess I contributed to the cause. Honestly, I didn't get very far down our street before I came to a wall that was probably cement in the past. Peeling rock posters and club promotions were pasted to it, all looking rather yellowed and crumbly. I felt kind of sad looking at advertisements for up-and-coming rock bands, because I knew posters promoting Roger should have been wall-papered all over the East Village. I stuck one of Collins's stickers right at eye-level over a poster that promised, "The best rave ever!!". 

            As I shuffled away, I felt a sharp tug on one of the few belt loops still in tact on my jeans. " 'Corporations Lie'," I heard the, otherwise perky, voice say contemplatively. I turned around slowly. 

She'll rip through your room.

She's a human tornado.  
She'll cut through your gloom.

She's a human tornado.  
She'll forecast your doom.

She's a human tornado.

I'll come right out and say it: I hate meeting new people. I always feel so stupid and my tongue swells up to the size of a small quadruped, resulting in a not-so-intelligent first impression.

"I really like your sticker," she said, grinning. Curls in tangled masses falling on her face, brown doe eyes, and this impish smile… I was in love. "Are you a filmmaker?" she asked excitedly.

"What? Oh…" I could've slapped myself. Girls never talk to me! You can probably see why—I act like I'm mute.

She giggled and tugged on my wrist. "You have a camera." She glanced down at it. "An old-school camera, too!"

"Yeah," I stammered.

"I'm a performance artist," she explained. "I'd love it if you'd come out and tape one of my protests! I do an original piece, at least twice a month. All my own material, too." She cocked her head to the side. "I just did a performance piece to celebrate the freeing of the beavers in the Falkland Islands. I dressed up as a big bunch of grapes."

I blinked.

"It was a metaphor."

"Oh."

She twisted a curl around her index finger. "Did you know that it takes 15 beavers to produce an average ladies' beaver coat?"

I shook my head. I'd never owned an average ladies' beaver coat.

She'll ransack your heart.

She's a human tornado.  
She'll make you feel smart.

She's a human tornado.  
She'll sell all your art.

She's a human tornado.

            "Hey, you know, we should go out sometime," she reasoned. My heart leapt into my esophagus. "Maybe get a coffee? We can talk turkey," she grinned, "or performance art and movies, if you want."

            All the joints in my neck seemed to turn to rubber, because I was nodding my head like some kind of twisted dashboard bobbing dog. "I'd, uh, really like that."

            "Great! Oh, I'm Maureen, by the way." She picked up my wrist again and pulled a pink pen out of her pocket. "I hope you don't have any strange allergies to ink," she said, only half-jokingly. I tried to laugh, but it came out more of a wheeze. She grinned and scribbled a phone number onto the inside of my wrist. "Call me, really. You're cute." 

She'll forget your name.

She's a human tornado.  
She'll win at your game.

She's a human tornado.  
She's one righteous dame.

She's a human tornado.

            So, I began seeing Maureen regularly. I'd meet her at the Life Café for coffee, even though she constantly reminded me that it stains your teeth. I'd go to her riots and the unveilings of her performance pieces, even though I hated all the racket that normally surrounded them. I started to film her, the way I used to film Roger. Before I knew what was happening, she'd moved into the apartment and shared a room with me. I'd wake up in the morning, next to Maureen. Just seeing her try to control her curls, with the majority of hair care products known to man, lit up the rest of the day for me. 

And now she's giving you a heart attack.  
And you don't know if you can pick up her slack.  
You toss and turn every night and day.  
She came into your dreams,

_And now you've gotta pay.  
She's a never-stopping, bar-hopping, power-shopping human tornado._

            I don't know what went wrong… I mean, I started to wake up in the morning alone. Next to me, her half of the bed would still be perfectly made the way I had done the night before. It would feel cold, so I would knew that she just didn't rise uncharacteristically early. She began to come home, from the night before, right around the time I was beginning to make breakfast. I'd give her the cold shoulder.

            "Oh, Mark, honey," she'd say. I wouldn't turn around. I kept looking at the scrambled eggs simmering in the pan, hoping I wouldn't cry. "Sorry I'm so late coming home… Maybe early?" She'd giggled nervously.

            My eyes started to sting. I whipped around to look at her. Her hair was messier than usual, and her lipstick was smeared. Several buttons were missing from her top. "Couldn't you be less obvious?" I whimpered.

            She chewed her bottom lip. "What're you talking about, honey?" She wasn't even upset. Maybe she was; but that was just because she'd lose her free bed and breakfast.

            "Maureen!" I crowed, tears beginning to run down my face. It was all too much at the time. If I wasn't being betrayed by Maureen spreading her legs to every guy who winked at her, it would be Roger starting to have withdrawal symptoms. "Just admit it! Jesus Christ… I'm not stupid!"

            She'd take my face into her hands and speak softer. "Honey… You know I just went out for a little while." I'd be blubbering like a baby by now. And the really sad thing is: I wanted to believe her so badly. I wanted to believe that she didn't sleep with four other guys last night. Now, I wonder if I was upset because she was cheating on me, or if I was upset because she wasn't getting what she wanted from me?

            Many nights and mornings would play out in a similar fashion. I suppose I shouldn't have been surprised that after Maureen had had her way with so many men, she'd move onto women. I think knowing that I'd been dumped for a woman hurt worse than knowing Maureen had participated in an all-male orgy the night before.

            I remember she came home with a blouse on that I didn't recognize. I'd been up all night, like usual, waiting for her. To pass the time, I'd trace Roger's name with my finger that he'd carved into the table. 

            "Marky, baby, we need to talk."

            Normally, it was me who wanted to talk. She's breaking up with me… She found a guy and he's hung like a horse… "Okay."

            "I don't think I can do this anymore." Maureen was chewing her bottom lip as she came over and sat on the table with me. "I found someone else."

            I expected it, but it still made me ache inside. "Do I know him?"

            "Uh… No," she said slowly. "Because… He's a she."

            I blinked. "You're dumping me for a drag queen?"

            "No!" she said loudly. "I mean, I've become involved with a woman." 

            My jaw suddenly unhinged. "What?"

            "She's beautiful, Mark! She's beautiful and smart… And a lawyer," she said proudly.

            "You've 'become involved'… With a woman," I repeated. Become involved. She'd never used that term when she was… "Involved" with me. "You're dumping me for a chick?!"

            "Marky! You don't dump people, you dump garbage. I'm _breaking up_ with you."

            Whoo, boy. This must be some woman. "Dump garbage? That's an interesting description." I crossed my arms and glowered. "Is she better in the sack than me?"

            Maureen glared at me, though I was being completely serious. "You know I love you, Mark. But this woman… She's my soul mate."

            "I love you, but I'm not in love with you," I said quietly.

            "Exactly!" she said, sounding relieved. "I knew you'd understand!" She kissed my forehead. The mark her lips left felt as though they'd burn all the way to my brain.

            My lesbian, ex-lover Maureen Johnson? She's a human tornado.


End file.
